Before and After
by AGirloftheSouth
Summary: A series of events surrounding the marriage ceremony of Sherlock and John.  Established relationship, obviously.  Smut and fluff, basically.  Enjoy.  Rated M, very M.
1. The H Word

A/N – Well, mattsloved1 is the reason this story is being written because she asked for it first, but lots of people have sense requested different parts of what is to come. Therefore, I dedicate this to everyone! Divvy up the parts and play nice kids.

This story won't be told chronologically. Each chapter will consist of two parts (before the wedding/and after the wedding) that relate to each other. The intent is to show small changes because of the wedding. Although, that is probably giving weight to a story that will be little more than fluff, sometimes sappy, sometimes smutty, always fluff.

And the last part of the longest Author's Note in history…ScopesMonkey was beta for this and made it infinitely better. She is awesome, I heart her and you should too!

Warnings- male/male smutty goodness. If you don't like that I don't quite know why you are here, but please feel free to ignore it.

Disclaimer – In debt and outta funds, not mine!

Before

"I think you should wear this one." Sherlock comes into the kitchen holding a yellow tie covered with black bees. It was a gag gift from one of the other doctors at the clinic last Christmas. It still has the tag on it. I'm also pretty sure that it was still in the box I received it in and that I'd tossed it haphazardly onto the closet shelf. I vaguely hoped to hide it from Sherlock forever. I probably should have just thrown it away.

I look at him as I finish up my tea. "Exactly which suit do you want me to wear with that?" In theory it would match my black one, Sherlock's favorite, but I certainly don't have a shirt to go with it.

He frowns at me before turning his attention back to the tie. "Is there something wrong with just wearing this?" I cough, choking on my coffee.

"I can't marry you just wearing a tie. I'd be arrested before we even get to the magistrate's office."

_Especially that tie_, I think.

He rolls his eyes at me; clearly I've failed to follow some train of thought he hadn't vocalized. Stupid me.

"This clearly isn't for the ceremony, John." He waves the tie at me. "I prefer no tie, or rather I prefer you in a suit with no tie. You, with just a tie, is one of my favorite things."

I feel the warmth spread into my cheeks. He smirks. He always enjoys making me blush. "I'm packing it," he says and exits the kitchen.

"Just don't take out anything I've packed!" I yell after him and make a mental note to check the suitcases before we leave.

The tie will be joining a pair of boxers he bought himself that have the periodic table of elements on them. He insists they are sexy. I laughed seeing him in them, his erection poking through the slit between iron and cobalt.

He has also packed specific "acceptable" sleepwear for me. I'd purchased a new set of pyjamas for the trip and he'd been personally offended. The ratty pyjamas I've had since before Afghanistan are preferable apparently, so two days ago the new pyjamas were unpacked and put away and the "acceptable" ones replaced them. He'd then stormed out of the room huffing something about not needing them anyway.

I just shrugged it off, conceding gladly. It gave me the ammunition needed to demand that the purple shirt be worn at the ceremony. I love the purple shirt, and pairing it with the charcoal grey suit makes me very happy. He'd frowned but acknowledged defeat.

He's actually supposed to be deciding on what I will wear to the ceremony now. It is tomorrow after all. The black suit is a given, but the great shirt debate seems to be raging on. Mostly because he keeps getting distracted by other things, like the idea of tying me up with an atrocious bumblebee tie. Also, I refused to be married in a jumper. That was his first choice.

I finish my tea and head towards the bedroom.

Sherlock is leaning against the headboard, long legs stretched out in front of him. He's tapping on his lips with his right index finger and staring at three shirts that he has hung on the dresser. It's the white one with the grey pin stripes, the blue one that is his favorite with my grey suit, and a pink one he bought me a few months ago.

"Remove the pink one, please," he says focusing his attention on the other two. I grab the pink one and put it back into the closet.

"Will you kindly remove your shirt and model the remaining choices please?" I look at him - his face appears serious, but I can see the glint in his eyes that betray his true intention. I smile at him, grab the blue shirt and put it back into the closet.

He frowns at me.

I climb onto the bed next to him. "I'll make you a deal." I throw one leg over his and settle my weight on his thighs. The glint is back in his eyes along with a huge grin. He settles his hands on my hips.

"I'll wear that shirt right there as it matches the suit the best." He nods. "I'll not wear a tie because you prefer not." His hands move around to my ass and he squeezes. He nods again. "And I'll pack a jumper, of your choice, and agree to wear it the first night in Corsica."

He straightens, pressing closer to me. He squeezes again and I cup his face and gently scratch his scalp. His voice takes on a purr-like quality.

"You'll wear just the jumper and use the bumblebee tie," he pauses, "at the same time?" One of his eyebrows raises slightly and I wonder if he even knows.

I lean forward and brush my lips across his jaw. "At the same time," I whisper.

"God," he grunts, pulling me closer.

* * *

><p>After<p>

I'm glad we decided on one of the hotel's private villas instead of the main building. The sound of the surf pounding on the rocks below us is relaxing and the private view of the sunset over the Mediterranean was magnificent.

Mostly though, it means that no one has disturbed us to make sure that the screams issuing from my new husband are indeed screams of pleasure. They are, of course, but to the outside ear it wouldn't be so easy to distinguish. Someone would probably have to be right outside of our room to even hear John's screams over the surf and the high winds.

The decision was an excellent one. However, not nearly as excellent a decision as the red jumper and the bumblebee tie.

I watch him as he arches off the bed. The position has caused the jumper to ride up and it is currently pooling in the middle of his chest, the bottom of his ribcage now visible to me. His arms are pulling on the tie as it secures his wrists to the headboard. The knots are loose and he could escape easily, but instead he grips the material and is inadvertently causing it to tighten on his wrists. His hands are slightly more red than usual and seem to be darkening. There is little concern though; he's almost done.

His face turning red is a little more alarming - he's holding his breath. I run my tongue on the underside of his shaft as I let him slip out of my mouth. I'm going to tell him to breathe, but the loss of contact has sent the air expelling out of him. He whimpers out an incoherent complaint and his body collapses back onto the bed. He's gasping now and the color is returning to normal.

He opens his eyes and looks down at me. He's desperate, more so than I've ever seen him. I feel momentarily victorious. Patience is not one of my attributes, but I convinced myself it would be worth it here. I've never had an assumption be more accurate.

I have two fingers inside of him and use them to press harder against his prostate. He whimpers again and his eyes close. His hips begin their shallow thrusts into nothing and an excruciating "please" whispers out of him.

I can deny this man nothing. I stick my tongue out to taste the liquid, lighter than usual because of torturous stimulation, which is dripping from him freely. It is so wonderfully John, so wonderfully my husband. My husband.

I take him in my mouth again and watch him arch. The jumper pools around his shoulders, covering his face. It does nothing to muffle him, though, as I press my index finger deeper and he releases.

A matter of moments later, I begin to crawl up him. His body is completely relaxed but he's still gasping for air beneath me. I come to rest on top of him and reach a hand up to quickly undo the knots. I toss the bumblebees onto the nightstand to be used later and grab both of his hands. I do a quick inspection to make sure there are no unpleasant marks. I tied him too tightly once and he got a bruise. He didn't mind in the slightest, but it made me nauseous every time I saw it.

There are no signs of any today and I place a kiss onto each wrist and then each palm. The fingers of his left hand curl around my cheek as I do so. I look down at him with that wonderfully satiated grin on his face.

"I didn't think you had it in you," he says letting out a little chuckle.

"You are my husband, you should never doubt me." I flatten myself against his chest, using his good shoulder as a pillow. He wraps his arms around me.

"Husband," he says. The word quietly settles around us filling in all the empty spaces. Marriage, another excellent decision on our part.


	2. Compromise

A/N – Thanks to ScopesMonkey, once again for making this better. And she brit-picked it this time so for a lot of you the words will be spelled correctly now, yay! For the rest of you ignore the misspellings. :o)

Fact- Marriage is about compromise. Or so I've heard, never tried it myself.

Before

"SHERLOCK!" I scream up the stairs at him. The smell from the kitchen is turning my stomach. When I hear no movement from the bedroom I know that he's just covered his head with a pillow and is ignoring me.

I rub my hands over my face and head to the window. If I don't open it I'm certain that I'll pass out. The fumes from whatever the hell is cooking on the kitchen table are starting to burn my eyes and my lungs. It smells alarmingly like chlorine and that actually scares me a bit.

Well, I guess because I'm fully healed the dangerous experiments are okay again. I roll my eyes and take a deep breath of the fresh air.

"SHERLOCK" I scream again and head back into the kitchen. There is a Bunsen burner lit with a very small flame under a flask secured on a peg board. There is a substance boiling out of the flask and onto the table where it has eaten through the protective mat he set up and the top of the table. I sigh and turn the burner off. I'm not touching whatever the hell this might be.

"SHERLOCK," I yell for the third time, "If you aren't down here in 5 seconds, we will never be having sex again." It's my standard threat and surprisingly still works. I hear him grumble something this time, followed by noises of him getting out of bed.

I grab a serving spoon and start to move things away from the hole that is forming on the table. I start to push things to one corner, like the salt and pepper shakers that are going into the bin, as soon as I determine that it is safe. I hear his steps as he enters the kitchen. I turn and see him standing naked in the doorway. His hair is poking out in every different direction. He is yawning and his morning erection seems to be growing as he sees me.

It makes me want to laugh at him; nothing is more erotic than an unknown corrosive material eating a surface you eat on.

"What the hell is this?" I point with the spoon at the substance no longer boiling but still oozing out of the flask.

He focuses on it and shrugs his shoulders. "I read about an experiment to increase the corrosiveness of hydrochloric acid. I was attempting to recreate it."

_What?_ I think. I shake my head in disbelief. "Clean it up," I say and walk to the fridge, "and be careful." I hear him moving behind me as I open the door intent on getting the milk out so that I can make tea. Instead, I'm greeted with two severed feet sitting on the top shelf between me and the milk.

I groan and run my hand over my face again.

"Molly saved them for me," says the voice from behind me. I let the fridge door close and head back to the stairs. I hear him begin to follow me and roll my eyes.

"I'm taking a shower and leaving. I'm going to have to stop and get coffee or tea on the way to the clinic."

"But we've had sex every morning since you've been better."

I roll my eyes as I begin to climb; I was given the all clear three weeks ago, three weeks. Granted we have had sex every morning so far. "I can say with certainty that feet in the fridge and corrosive lab experiments do nothing for my libido." I don't look back at him but I hear him stop moving. I can almost hear his frown.

"Clean it up and get them out of here." I close the bathroom door behind me, throw the lock, and turn the shower knob. It's going to be a long day.

After

"How was the honeymoon?" Molly asks me as she comes into the lab. I was in the middle of talking to Mike and he rolls his eyes as she comes in. She is unable to keep the hint of contempt out of her voice.

"Delightful," I answer truthfully. "We didn't actually see much of Corsica, but I doubt either of will be complaining about that." I smirk at her and Mike groans with exaggerated disgust.

Molly looks horrified for a moment, but then pushes it away. She comes and stands closer to me than is appropriate. "We had a dismemberment come through while you were away. I saved an arm for you." An eager smile crosses her face and she puts a hand on my shoulder. I'm tempted to shrug it off.

"Thank you," I say instead. "I will no longer be taking body parts home. John doesn't like it." I turn back to finish my conversation with Mike.

"But… but… What about your experiments?" I roll my eyes and turn back to her.

"The experiments will continue, just not on parts of the human anatomy. Blood and other such items are easier to store safely and unobtrusively. My _husband_," I let the word hang between us a moment, "is a very reasonable man. This is not an unreasonable request."

She huffs and pulls back. I offer her a huge smile before turning back to Mike. Again. He is trying not to laugh. Molly turns and walks away from us, her steps more forceful that usual. She mumbles under her breath something about being unsupportive.

"_Marriage_ is about compromise," I call after her. Mike is unable to contain his laugh any longer and she slams the door to the lab.

I look at Mike, who still laughing, his face turning red. "Compromise and guaranteeing I have sex in the morning. It's my favourite time."

He starts to choke.


	3. Green Eyed Monster

A/N – I offer some more undying gratitude to ScopesMonkey. Thank you again!

Before

I have no idea why John was so insistent that I attend this function. I have only met Dr. Stevens on five occasions, why do I care that he's moving to America? _I'd like it if you'd attend_, John had said. He'd spoken in the tone that suggested it was in my best interests, sexually, if I decided to attend, so here I am.

I sigh and begin to look around for John. He's easy to spot at the far end of the bar sitting with a woman I don't know. His back is to me and I make my way towards him. I keep my eyes on her as I do so.

She has her head tilted slightly to one side and she's blinking frequently. She keeps sticking her tongue out to wet her lips. She is dragging her fingers along the edge of her shirt, which is unbuttoned to the point so that the lace at the top of her bra is visible. A flash of anger plows through me.

I turn my attention to John's back and am able to immediately determine that he isn't interested. He's leaning away from her and is turned towards the bar, not towards her. I am relieved - still angry, but relieved.

John will talk to anyone; it's one of his more annoying character flaws. He should simply tell this woman that he is not interested and cease all communication. It's not as if it is difficult.

I reach them and she looks up at me curiously. I place my fingers on his spine, and drag them up to his neck. I see the barely noticeable shudder that this touch always brings. _She_ doesn't see it because she is still looking at me, questioningly, threateningly.

He turns his head and glances over his shoulder up at me. I turn my attention from her to him. He is smiling the welcoming smile that greets me every day. It begins to fade in the millisecond it takes me to lean down and kiss him. It surprises him. The rules against public displays of affection are mine, not his.

It is a relatively quick kiss as he refuses to let me deepen it and I pull back. I try to offer him a seductive smile but am met with a slight frown. He turns his attention back to her. She's looking shocked and annoyed.

"Linda," he says, "This is Sherlock, my boyfriend. Sher…"

"Fiancé," I correct. And offer her my hand. She shakes it. John's neck muscles tighten under my fingers.

"I, um, I, didn't know that, um, you were… involved." It is obvious that she means_, I didn't know that you were gay. _

John just shrugs his shoulders good-naturedly. She straightens but doesn't look upset, just surprised. There will be no confrontation over the topic, she means no offense.

"I am," he offers her with a smile, "Now if you'll excuse us. I've got some news to share with my _fiancé_." He spits the last word out like venom, but she doesn't seem to notice. She just smiles and nods her head, turning back towards the bar.

John stands and pulls away from me in the same movement. He walks towards the back corner of the room and I follow him. His steps are short and forceful. He is annoyed, probably verging on angry.

It isn't my fault that the woman was trying to chat him up.

He turns abruptly when he reaches a space with less people. His eyes rage for a moment but calm before he speaks. He crosses his arm, effectively shutting me out.

"What was that?" he demands in whispered yell.

"Did you see the way that she was… she was, offering herself to you?" I hiss back.

He doesn't look surprised, I expect him to be surprised. "Did I appear to be accepting it?" he snaps. "No, we were actually having a very interesting conversation about some new cancer treatments. But you storm over and practically attack me to lay your claim. It was ridiculous, Sherlock."

"John, I…" I start, but he lets out a sigh and looks away from me.

He looks back and shakes his head. "Let's go home. I've been embarrassed enough here tonight."

He walks past me and quickly says his good-byes. He appears to be normal jovial John. Then he goes to the door and looks back at me. I understand that we are leaving. He steps out of the door and I move to follow, working my way through the crowd.

He is halfway down the block when I make it outside, and I have to jog to catch him.

"John." I reach for his hand and he accepts it. That is a positive sign.

John has a finite amount of anger and I can usually wait it out. When he's calmer he'll insist we discuss the problem which can be tedious, but at least he will no longer be upset.

"I could tell that you weren't interested in her," I say, trying to emphasise that I don't doubt him.

"But you checked me to make sure," he replies. Apparently, that wasn't the right thing to do.

We walk for a long time and he finally lets out a long sigh and shakes his head. It's the sign that his anger has run out. He brings our joined hands to his face and places a kiss into my knuckles. It's a frustrated gesture, but frustrated is better than angry.

"I'm never going to cheat on you Sherlock." he looks up at me. "I am about to vow to spend the rest of my life with you." The thought of that always makes me smile. "I'm going promise that, it is a promise I intend to keep."

I nod my head. I have every intention of doing the same thing. He smiles at me then, still annoyed, still frustrated, but not angry. I squeeze his fingers.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I will not be jealous anymore." At least I will not act on it. That did not go well.

He smiles, "I don't mind that you're jealous Sherlock. Just don't embarrass me anymore. I understand the subtlety isn't your strong suit, but if in doubt do nothing or ask to speak to me quietly." He squeezes my fingers, again, holding tightly. "Who knows, if you're jealous, and don't act like an ass, I might have to spend time reassuring you of my affections."

That is a very promising idea.

After

I make my way back to the pool side cabana where Sherlock has taken up residence. It made of three wooden walls and covered with a giant canvas allowing him "sit" in the sun without burning. It's a happy compromise. I'd certainly enjoyed the two days we've spent in the room, but we came to Corsica, so I'd like to at least see some body of water.

I climb in beside Sherlock and set the drinks onto the small wood table at the head of the cabana.

He reaches for his and takes a long sip and then settles back into the pillow. He crosses his fingers on his stomach, right above the swim trunks he bought for just this occasion. He'd packed them himself and I hadn't bothered to inspect them before we left. I'm glad because it was a very nice surprise when he walked out of the bathroom in them this morning. They are black shorts, and tight, very tight. There is a thin strip of purple trim on the top of the waist band and the drawstring just inside the waist band is also purple. They sit very low on his hips giving an incredible view of the muscular lines where thighs meets obliques and abs.

The whole getup is very nice, very nice indeed.

I sit up and look out over the pool watching the people get in and out and settling on the poolside chairs. The temperature is hot, but not uncomfortably so. There is a path down the rocks to the beach just past the pool area. The sound of the surf reaching us from there is very relaxing. There's even a nice breeze bringing the smell of saltwater up to us.

I lean my head back against the headboard and close my eyes.

"Does the cabana boy have a name?" Sherlock asks, "Or is the correct term 'waiter' or 'bartender'?"

I open my eyes but he hasn't moved. He had apparently been watching me while I got our drinks.

"His name is Paolo," I say and reach a hand over and set it on Sherlock's chest. He brings one of his up to cover mine. "He's 24 and from Florence."

"Mmmm," Sherlock says. "He seemed very fond of you, particularly of your ass as you walked around. He couldn't take his eyes off of it in fact."

"Really?" I'd noticed, of course. Paolo had been very forward.

"Liar." There is a small smile playing on his features. "You noticed and you enjoyed it." I can't deny that - Paolo is very, very attractive.

"I also noticed that he stopped when you held up your hand and showed him your ring." Sherlock traces his finger over the ring where it rests on his chest. I smile.

"Well, its purpose is to show that I'm spoken for, right?" Another small smile crosses his features, but he shakes his head.

"No, it represents that we are both spoken for by the other. One doesn't wear a wedding ring unless it is given to them by another." His finger continues to play over my hand, brushing across the ring. "Driving off men like Paolo is just an added bonus, one that I can honestly say I hadn't anticipated. I enjoyed it a great deal."

I laugh at that, pressing my fingers deeper into his skin. He presses up against my fingers.

"Surely you aren't jealous, Sherlock. I mean we are married now." He huffs.

"Our marriage does nothing to diminish your attractiveness, good doctor. In fact, the elevated levels of endorphins and pheromones from the increased sexual activity and happiness heighten your attractiveness. I am not surprised that Paolo is interested, but I have no intention of sharing you. So, yes, I am uncomfortable when you are admired by very attractive 24-year-old Italian men."

"Really?" I ask again. "As you said we are married now." I pull away from him and close the curtains on the cabana. There is a string that lets you secure the curtains from the inside.

"Brilliant design," he says as I fasten the ties. I look back at him and he's propped himself up on his elbows, the glint that I enjoy so much shining in his eyes.

"Well," as I turn back towards him and straddle his shins. "I'll just have to reassure you how much you mean to me now that you are my _husband_."

I move forward and he flattens as I settle on top of him. I place my lips against his and then move down his jaw to his ear. He groans as I reach the spot just below his ear. His skin tastes like sweat and sunscreen. I feel his hands trace up my back, one settles in my hair and the other moves down my arm. I pull back when he brings my hand up to his face and kisses my ring.

I watch him for a moment then move back to the spot on his neck. He lets my hand fall and wraps his arms around me again. I smile against his skin.


	4. Scars

A/N – Thanks to ScopesMonkey, again! :o)

Before

He's in the shower when I get home. He takes at least two a day, which I understand after being in the hospital for 8 weeks. He says he can still smell the hospital, which is completely ridiculous. My olfactory sense is vastly superior to his and the scent of the hospital hasn't been present in our flat since I washed all of the laundry that we'd had there.

I don't tell him this though; I let him enjoy his showers. I think it has more with his ability to bathe himself than getting clean or removing any unexplained scents. He is still very weak and showering is one of the things he can manage without help. He is very frustrated, but, being John, he is trying to act as if he is not. He's a very proud man.

I set the files on the desk and I hear the water shut off. He'll probably want a cup of tea, so I head to the kitchen to put the kettle on. The water is just boiling when the bathroom door opens.

"Hello," I call out, "I'm making some tea." I pour the water into the mugs.

I hear his slower than usual footsteps in the hall. He's tired. He must have been awake for a while. He can usually manage about 4 hours now without having to get some sleep. Unless he exerts himself, then it's significantly less.

"Hi," he says as he moves into the kitchen. His hair is wet and he has dark circles under his eyes. He's wearing the new dressing gown that Harry bought him for his birthday last week. It's a warm brown and it makes me want to wrap myself around him and hold him close. I can't, not yet. That's still several weeks away. I am continually surprised by the things I miss more than sex. I miss him with me on cases. I miss holding him against me while I sleep. I miss his strong constant presence. He's still here all the time but, he's weak and tired. He is my John in every way that matters, but my John is still recovering.

I raise and arm and he gingerly moves against me to settle his weight against my side and bury his head into my chest. I settle my arm gently across his shoulders and kiss the top of his head.

"How's the case?"

I've taken a simple case at John's insistence. It was just a series of elaborate muggings that were taking place in and around Trafalgar Square. It was a group of local teens who were so unsophisticated that they were actually fooling the police. The whole thing took me about 7 hours to figure out. The Met has been working on it for 7 weeks.

"Solved it," I say. "Simple."

He chuckles against me. "Naturally," he tightens his grip around me for a second. "I'm going to put some clothes on. I'll be right back."

I kiss his head again before he pulls away. I watch him walk slowly out of the kitchen, then I quickly toss the tea bags and follow him. He's pushed the door partially closed and I kick it with my foot.

He's sitting on the bed, pulling on a pair of sweat pants. His chest is still bare.

Naturally, I've seen him undressed through this whole ordeal, but for some reason I'm shocked by it today. He looks too thin, his ribs prominent where they usually aren't, and he has scars. The old familiar bullet would looks pronounced on a bonier than normal shoulder. The way his collar bone jutting out is distorting the bottom half of the scar. It looks stretched out and awkward, unfamiliar.

The surgical scar on his chest is dark red, almost black in places, the incision and suture marks clearly visible. It looks like the scar of someone who had heart surgery, although repairing a punctured lung was probably equally severe. I don't like to think about that.

He also has one just below and to the right of his navel. That's where they repaired his perforated bowel. It still has a reddish hue, but has already lightened significantly. It will appear to be just an ordinary scar soon, not much different than one for an appendectomy.

A sudden chill crawls up my spine and I try to shake it off.

"I'm sorry they're so ugly." His voice draws my eyes to his face. He's frowning, looking down at his chest. He presses his fingers tenderly next to the scar there. Even though it is technically healed, he says that it is still sensitive to the touch. He compares it to having a bruise.

"Don't be ridiculous," I say and he looks up at me. "They were necessary, their attractiveness is inconsequential."

He smiles at me, "My attractiveness is inconsequential?" There is a playful glint in his eyes; he is being purposefully dense.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, that is exactly what I mean. Clearly you are horribly disfigured now." I close the distance between us and set the tea on the bedside table. I kneel in front of him and gently place a hand on either thigh. His legs had some scrapes and bruises but no major damage. They are the only place that is safe to touch all of the time. "That is why I've agreed to marry you. I pity you. Obviously no one else will have you because of approximately 1/10,000 of your body being scarred." I rub my thumbs in circles just above his knees. "You should praise me continually for the service I'm doing for you."

He laughs, a hearty John laugh, and then he winces, grabbing his side and setting a hand lightly over the scar on his chest. His ribs and sternum still ache on occasion, especially if he laughs too hard. I feel a wave of guilt at causing him pain, but the smile never leaves his eyes. He insists that he enjoys laughing, even if it's painful on occasion. I have no reason to doubt his truthfulness on this matter.

As the pain passes he takes his hand from his chest and rests it on the side of my face. I turn so that I can place a quick kiss into his palm and he runs his thumb across my lips.

"Can I touch it?" I ask gesturing to the scar. I haven't touched it properly yet because of the pain. I've helped him bathe and seen it in various states of healing, but since it's been closed I have had no reason to.

He nods immediately and doesn't tell me to be careful. He trusts me not to hurt him and that makes me feel warm inside.

I bring my fingers up and gently set them dead center on the scar. It's warm to the touch, warmer than John's body temperature. The skin is soft and feels fragile, most likely because it's so new. This part of John is less than 10 weeks old. I brush them lower, barely making contact with the mark. John shudders but it is easily recognisable as a pleasurable reaction instead of a painful one. I don't stop.

I reach the bottom and let my fingers move past it and onto the more familiar feel of John's upper abdomen. I lean forward and place a kiss just an the junction where new scar meets old skin and touch it quickly with my tongue.

John lets out a quiet moan and it makes me smile to hear those noises coming out of him again, even if it will be weeks before anything more happens. I can wait.

He'll still be in my bed every night and each night I can be closer and closer.

He's still my John, warm and familiar, with a crooked smile and loving eyes that always look at me like I'm special, special just because I'm me, not just because I'm smart. He'll still help me with the cases and before too long will feel up to returning to the field with me. He's weak but getting stronger every day.

After

He settles his weight on top of me fully, something he'd still been reluctant to do until recently. It feels different than before the attack but not uncomfortable. He sits up enough so that he can look down at me.

"I thought we were going down to the pool again?" I ask, bringing my hands up to rest on his back, just where the swim trunks meet his waist, or rather lower than his waist actually.

"I did enjoy the pool two days ago," he says his voice taking on the slight whiny tone. "But you kept your shirt on the whole time. I'd prefer to stay up here where there will be fewer clothes."

"And less Paolo?" I ask. He scrunches his face up in distaste. I laugh.

"We've left the room one whole day. We need to go down to the pool again. I'll take my shirt off, I promise." I glance down seeing the top of my scar poking out between our bodies. "And that will probably take care of your Paolo problem too. They aren't exactly appealing."

He frowns at that, following my gaze. He looks up again, meets my eyes and looks to my shoulder.

"Then he's an idiot," Sherlock says. "I love them and find them very appealing." His face has lost the playfulness it had a few minutes ago. He's serious, very serious, and he wants me to know it. He's never reacted negatively towards any of my scars, but that's a long way from loving them or finding them appealing.

My disbelief must show because he frowns and adjusts his weight up my body just enough so that he can reach the scar on my shoulder. He traces the edge of the bullet hole with his tongue and then dips his tongue into the cavity. I bring a hand up to run my fingers through his hair. He turns his head slightly so that he can whisper in my ear.

"This one brought you to me. It hurt you and I hate that it did that. I hate that it made you suffer in any way at all, but without it I would never have met you." He turns and kisses it again. "And you changed me and I changed you. You were broken and I helped fix you. I was broken and didn't even know it until you started to fix me. I hate that it hurt you, but am grateful for it as well."

He pushes up and moves down my body. He pushes my own swimming trunks down just enough to kiss the scar there. It's pale already, having healed very quickly and very well. He kisses it; it's small enough that he can almost flatten his whole tongue against it. "This one and…" Then he moves to the bigger one on my chest.

His tongue starts at the bottom of the scar and he doesn't lose contact until he reaches the top. He curls the tip of his tongue as he lifts off as if he was actually lapping something off of me. I groan at the sight despite my best efforts not to.

"…this one…"

He brings his head even with mine. He pushes up on his arms so that he towers over me. He adjusts so that he is straddling my hips. I glance down and see the too tight swim trunks pulled even tighter by this position. I wonder momentarily if it's comfortable, but his words distract me. I look up and his eyes are alight with emotions that I can't immediately identify.

"…show me every day, every single day, that you are alive and here with me. They show me how close I came to losing you. I don't ever want to forget that. Ever."

He leans down and gives me a quick kiss, before pushing away again.

"They are the reason that you are here right now. They are the reason that you are my husband and I am yours."

He pushes himself into sitting position, and settles his hand on either side of my scar. He starts to brush it gently with his thumbs.

He whispers, his gaze focusing on them fondly. "You are _alive_ because of them. I am alive because of them. Alive."

He looks back up at me, "If it weren't for them I would be unable to be jealous of the way Paolo continually eyes your ass. And if he's too stupid to understand that these are the reason that he has an ass to look at, then he's too stupid to be allowed to continue to admire."

He looks down at the scar again and then his eyes shoot back up to mine. "From afar, he's too stupid to be allowed to continue to admire _from afar_. He doesn't get to touch."

I almost laugh. "I had no intention of letting him touch. I wouldn't mind if he stopped admiring, it feels a little weird to be stared at across the pool like a piece of meat."

A seductive smirk crosses Sherlock's face. It surprises me. "Oh, I don't mind if he looks." My husband plants his hands on either side of me and shifts his hips down, bringing the front of his too tight swimming trunks into contact with the front of my much looser swimming trunks. "He can look as long as he knows that you most definitely belong to me."


	5. Before

A/N – Thanks to ScopesMonkey, as always.

Before

He's asleep, one leg and one arm strewn across me, per usual. His face is buried into the space where my shoulder meets the pillow and his soft breaths are brushing across the incredibly sensitive spot on my neck. I have to force the sensations down because we won't have time for that this morning. He shifts slightly and his dark curls tickle my ear. It is almost exactly the same way he was positioned the first time I woke up with him. Those first tentative steps made both of us nervous, I think, but it was worth the risk. This is easily the best relationship I've ever been a part of. Sometimes, I think I was born for this, born for the pain, the exhaustion, the fear, the adrenaline, and all the stupid, frustrating, glorious happiness. Born to be with him.

I pull away slightly and whisper his name.

"Sherlock."

He mumbles and pushes his body closer to mine, tightening the grip of his arm across my chest. There is a faint twinge through my ribs, more psychosomatic than anything else, and I resist the urge to cringe. It's been a long road to get him completely comfortable touching me. I don't want any setbacks.

"Sherlock," I repeat. "We have to get up."

He says a clear "no" this time and buries his face deeper. I bring my hand up to rest on his thigh that is draped across my hips and trace my fingers along the sensitive spot just behind his knee. He shudders and hums against my shoulder.

"Sherlock, we have to go be civilly joined." He doesn't move but is awake almost instantly at that. I can tell by the slight tension that enters his muscles as they prepare to stretch and become functional again.

He pops his head up suddenly and looks at me.

"That's silly, John, we are being married." He is unable to keep the smile from his face as he says the words. I know that it matches the smile on mine. I think I should be nervous, but I'm not. Not even a little.

"Technically, it's a civil union," I correct. I stretch up and place a kiss on his chin, the faint stubble scratches my nose and sends jolts through my body. I love waking up with him in the mornings. _And every morning from this point forward, _I think. _Except when he's on a case,_ I mentally add.

"Technically, that is stupid. I am entering into a marriage and so are you," he replies as he presses himself off of me and into sitting position. The movement pulls the blankets down to my thighs and he takes a moment to look me up and down, arousal crosses his features. "Perhaps we should shower separately."

"Good idea, Mr. Holmes." I sit up and move to my knees. I lean towards him and settle my hand on the back of his neck before I move to kiss him. He lets me deepen it and I do, causing him to moan and bring a hand up to cup my face. I feel the instant that he completely relaxes, giving in. It's the instant he concedes to be late for our appointment, our wedding, and stay here with me, in bed, for as long as I want. I pull back from him, his face is flushed his eyelids heavy. He looks beautiful and he smiles at me. I smile back in the instant before I dart off the end of the bed. "Me first," I shout over my shoulder and I hear the pillow thump against the bedroom door as I manage to close it behind me.

Before

He's standing in the kitchen when I walk in. He's got his suit trousers on and the white shirt, which is open just the correct number of buttons. He's barefoot, though, and leaning against the kitchen counter holding a plate under his chin and eating a piece of toast. I frown with some sort of indignation that he's eating in the suit he's going to be married in and hasn't even bothered to put on his shoes, but I don't feel it. I don't feel anything but a buzzing excitement that seems to have settled just under my skin. I expected to be nervous, anxious but I am not. Excited, I am only excited.

"Want a piece?" he asks me between bites. I nod, surprising myself, and he holds the plate out to me. I grab one and the napkin he offers. I take a couple of bites and set it back on the plate. He smiles at me as he bins the rest and sets the plate in the sink. We are coming home before we head to Corsica so I know he will wash the dish then, not that I care if it sits there for two weeks. It's just a plate with crumbs. He washes his fingers, careful not to get his cuffs wet. I notice he got the cuff links in by himself, something with which he usually struggles.

He walks towards me and stand on his toes, placing a quick kiss against my lips. The simple gesture ignites my nerve endings and every muscle in my body twitches. I feel so excited and have so much energy I feel like I could run a marathon or swim the Channel. I could jump rooftop to rooftop through London. He lowers himself back down and smiles up at me. He's happy and excited. _I could jump rooftop to rooftop screaming about how much I love John Watson_. I roll my eyes and the ridiculousness of that thought and John seems to have understood it because his smile grows.

"I'm going to finish getting ready," he says. "Cologne preference?" I only have one that he truly loves so there is no need for him to specifically choose one of mine. I put it on as soon as I finished showering. John has three that I enjoy for very different reasons, but today's choice is an obvious one.

"The blue one," I reply having no knowledge as to the name of the cologne. It is in the blue bottle as opposed to the clear of the green bottle. It is the blue one, the one that makes me want to devour every inch of him for hours. I plan to do that this very evening, in our hotel room in Corsica with the bumblebee tie and the red jumper and maybe before, in the few minutes where we come home to change and pick up the bags before heading to the airport.

Perhaps if we cut the lunch short we can squeeze in the extra necessary time for that to happen. There is something appealing about our first time after getting married being in our own bed. I will see if I can make that happen. Worst case scenario we are late for the plane, and as it is a private flight set up by Mycroft, they'll wait for us.

John nods and walks past me. I hear his quiet tread on the stairs as he heads back up to the bedroom. I see he's made coffee and left the remaining half of his cup sitting on the counter. I bring it to my lips and down the bitter liquid.

A few moments later I hear the same tread as he walks back down the stairs, the heels of his shoes tapping down each step and the familiar creak as he reaches the fifth step from the bottom. I close my eyes and remember the first time I heard those noises. The gait was uncertain then, having been dependent on a cane less than 48 hours previous. He'd been tired from the case and moving his few boxes, but not from the guilt. He'd never felt guilt for that man's death, that man had been about to hurt me.

I turn and look at him as he reaches the bottom step. He looks over at me, that warm familiar smile across his face. He's straightening his jacket, pulling on the lapels. He looks amazing. He holds out a hand and I close the distance between us and take it.

"Ready?" he asks and I nod.


	6. After

After

It's shameful really. My abilities have never failed me before; I've been wrong - on occasion - but never unaware. However, as we walk the few blocks to the restaurant, hand in hand, I realise that I have no idea what the magistrate looked like. I spoke to the man, shook his hand, probably offered him a smile of greeting but I don't remember. I don't remember any of it except John.

I squeeze his fingers. He looks up at me and smiles.

I only remember John, the smile on his face, the gleam in his eyes. I remember the way his hand felt when I put the ring on it, the way his fingers felt when he put the ring on mine. I remember the slight hiccough in his voice as he said the words, the forever words. I remember the feeling of my heart skipping in the same moment.

He held his breath as I spoke. His licked his lips in the millisecond before we kissed. They were wet and warm and he darted his tongue quickly against mine before pulling away. Every muscle in my body was twitching as we stood there and the ring shone as he accepted the pen and signed his name.

Dr. John H. Watson. My husband.

I signed right below him; my hand had a slight tremor as I held the pen. Not from nervounesss but from the energy pulses that continued to surge through me. John settled a palm against my face for a moment as I wrote the date. I placed a quick kiss against his thumb as it traced across my lips.

His voice was quiet with a whispered "I love you" as we walked out of the office. I held his hand tightly, sure that I'd never let it go again. We walked onto the street and I was certain that the grin on my face must match the one that was on his.

We stop at a corner and wait for the light to change. I place a quick kiss on his temple. It's feels odd as we rarely display affection in public, but today is different. I don't mind so much today.

He glances at his watch as we start to walk across the street. We are going to be a few minutes late, but it is the lunch celebrating our wedding. It won't start until we arrive.

When we started planning this a few months ago, we'd both agreed that we wanted the ceremony to just be the two of us. Mycroft had been understanding and had offered the private plane for the trip to Corsica. Harry had been disappointed but had tried to hide it. She'd offered to take us to lunch afterwards to celebrate and we'd happily accepted. At her request we'd invited Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade is on holiday with his family or we would have included him as well.

The idea sounded promising when she offered. Now it seems like an inconvenience. I want to go home with John and spend the few hours before our flight leaves in bed.

I spot the restaurant and begin my mental planning to get us out of there as quickly as possible. Perhaps we'll just order salad. That doesn't take long to prepare or consume. Perhaps I'll say I'm too excited to eat. Certainly Harry will understand, she got married once - it wasn't happy though.

Unlike John and I, who are very happy.

John squeezes my hand and pulls on my arm. I'm surprised since we are nearly at the restaurant. He pulls me into the alley and turns to face me. The same grin that he had as we left the magistrate's office is still plastered on his face.

I expect that he's going to kiss me as I want to kiss him. Instead he moves to wrap his arms around me. He settles one on around my waist and one between my shoulder blades. He buries his face into my chest and takes a deep breath. I weave a hand in his hair and wind my other arm across his shoulders. I place a kiss into his hair, savouring the way it feels against my cheek. I tighten around him feeling the warmth of the body that is as familiar to me as my own, perhaps more so.

"I just needed a moment, a moment before…" he mumbles the words into my chest and I nod, understanding. I'm grateful.

"I don't want to share you either," I say and he squeezes me. I feel his lips against my chest. I pull back far enough so that I can kiss him. He tastes the same, but better. He tastes like my husband now.

We separate and he smiles up at me.

"What's the plan?" He asks me. I frown not understanding him. He chuckles. "What's the plan to get us out of this lunch as quick as possible?" He gestures with his head to the restaurant.

I pull him closer to me again and place a kiss on the tip of his nose. I feel giddy and silly and it's embarrassing. I don't mind John seeing it, though. He's feeling the same way. "I think we should order salads and water, quickest preparation and serving time."

He smiles. "Salad and water it is." He moves his hand down and squeezes my ass. "Let's go." He holds a hand behind him as he moves past me. I take it and let him pull me to the door.

After

He's asleep and, in the time I was in the loo, he managed to spread out across the bed, his face is buried into my pillow. The early morning Mediterranean air is cool as it blows in through the open windows. The salt air reminds me of my childhood and the summers in Southampton at the marina or on boats when we could manage an invitation.

God, my life is so different now than it was then.

The blankets are pooled around his waist and there are goose bumps starting to appear on his back. And as if on cue, he shivers and makes a sleepy grab at the blankets. I'm tempted to grab the 'dirty picture' camera from where he left it on the nightstand and snap a few of him and perhaps delete some of the red jumper and bumblebee tie ones he took last night. I won't though; I'd rather watch him for a moment. The lean muscles of his back are completely relaxed. His dark curls are a mess as they cover the pillow and his face.

He's beautiful and he's brilliant and yesterday he agreed to spend the rest of his life with me. I still can't quite believe it. He probably could have anyone that he wanted, he certainly gets enough random looks and compliments. He chose me though. Me.

I'm so thankful for that. I can't imagine a day without him anymore.

I climb up the foot of the bed and settle my weight on top of him. His skin is cold as I settle my face between his shoulder blades. I place a quick kiss against his skin and tuck my arms with his under the pillows.

I close my eyes and prepare to sleep like this. It isn't the most comfortable, but I've done it before. Worst case scenario I wake up on top of Sherlock.

"You're heavy," he mumbles into the pillow and shuffles underneath me.

"Funny," I say, not moving, "you don't usually complain about my weight." I place another kiss on his back. "It's usually 'be on top, John' or 'I like it when you stay here, John'." He moans slightly and shifts against me, this time with the intention of increasing the contact between our bodies.

"I think we should do something that will make me say those things again." I can hear the smile in his voice and feel the slight shift in his hips.

"Mmmm." I move the hair away from his neck and place a kiss there. "Or we could order breakfast and go to the pool or down to the beach…"

He grunts. "Breakfast is acceptable, but I'd rather stay here."

"Whatever will we do all day?" I move to the side of his neck just beneath his ear. He turns his head so that it's easier for me.

"I can see no flaw in continuing your current… mmmm." His words trail off as I suck on the spot where neck meets shoulder. It's one of his favourite spots. "That's nice," he mumbles, his voice deeper than usual. It pangs through me and I use my teeth to bite down gently on the same spot. He pushes his body up into me and turns his face back into the pillow.

I lift my weight up and Sherlock twists underneath me. He wraps his arms around me and tries to pull me down. I resist him, he frowns for a minute before a smirk crosses his face. "Be on top, John," he says with a fake whine. I settle down on top of him and he groans. It reverberates through my body as I move my face down to continue my attention to his neck. He tilts his head so I have easy access and moves his hands down to squeeze my ass. He wraps one leg around me, flattening his foot against my calf. It's simple and yet one of my favorite sensations. I remember the first time he did it, an intimate moment a few days into our new relationship on another morning where we had nowhere to be.

The urge is sudden and it surprises me, just like it did on the way to the restaurant yesterday. I want to hug him, I want to pull him as close to me as I can and hold him. I manage to tuck one arm under his neck and the other one under his shoulder. I bury my face in his hair and just sit there. He shifts bringing his arms up to my back and squeezes me.

"John?" he asks, tentative about the sudden change in my actions.

I shake my head and can't say anything. Suddenly, I don't have the words. I shake my head again and gasp in a breath. "I love you," I manage.

He squeezes harder against my ribs, burying fingers into my hair. He moves his legs, wrapping them around my hips, completely securing me against him.

"I love you, too," he responds, placing a kiss against my shoulder.


End file.
